


Lex Talionis (A Tale of Academic Freakytits)

by The_Researcher



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 06:54:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12906522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Researcher/pseuds/The_Researcher
Summary: Two academics, both alike in tenured dignity,In fair Wentworth U., where we lay our scene...SUPER AU fic in which Wentworth is set in a university, rather than a prison."My name's Joan Ferguson, but you can call me 'Professor.'"





	Lex Talionis (A Tale of Academic Freakytits)

**September**

 

Vera was reading Tennyson in bed again.

This was never a good sign. Her battered old Norton, left over from her undergrad days (still bearing the obnoxious yellow “used books save money!” sticker on its spine) only came out when she was feeling particularly maudlin.

Like now.

Vera sighed. Tennyson wasn’t even in her field—nor was he fashionable anymore. Only word-struck first-year undergrads newly arrived from the farm and drunk on poetry read Tennyson. Vera had work to do, emails to return. She needed to photocopy syllabi for her classes, write that conference proposal, complete and submit her annual activity report two months early.

She settled herself more deeply under her covers, wrapping them tightly around her small pajamaed body. Her mind slipped across the stanzas, reading only phrases here and there, drinking in the melancholy rather than concentrating on any single poem. It was the Tuesday morning after Labor Day. She needed this refuge of words before she dragged herself to the annual back-to-school department meeting. She needed armor.

She needed to brood.

And then she needed to suck it up, get out of bed, and go to work.

*** 

Dr. Vera Bennett, Associate Professor of English, faculty mentor and advisor to the hopeful (undergrads) and the hopeless (grad students), stood silently in the shower, internally reciting beautiful words and phrases. She allowed the hot water to drench her head and back even as she knew she’d never get her hair dried in time. It didn’t matter. They all knew her—had known her for years, which was part of the problem. Slim, tiny Vera—5’3 in responsible heels—with her nondescript brown hair and her faded blouses. She was sweet, reliable, competent… and never quite good enough.

At least that’s what she took their decision to mean.

She turned, lifting her face into the spray. What else could it indicate, really? She had already been acting as Interim Department Head for a full year when they concluded the search for the position. She had applied and interviewed for her own job, and still they chose someone else. An outsider.

She hadn’t met this Joan Ferguson, PhD (Yale, 1995). She believed it to be an ethical conflict to attend her interview or job talks, and so Vera had stayed away, conveniently in meetings all day as Ferguson visited the campus. She felt no remorse in sneaking a copy of Ferguson’s curriculum vitae, except for the lump it produced when she realized how vastly outclassed she was by this superior candidate. Still, Vera believed that she held the goodwill of the department; that all of her years of service to them would be recognized and repaid in the permanent position of Department Head. That she had been wrong was just… just…

She shut off the water.

*** 

Now clean and mostly groomed, Vera met Claire Devereux in the parking lot. Claire taught creative writing. She hailed from Detroit, and evinced a worldliness that Vera desperately wanted to copy. It had to do with big beads and scarves and Black feminist activism, which, when combined on Claire, translated somehow into French Intellectualism, Angela Davis, and an “I’ve just had sex and you haven’t” arrogance. Or something. It was bewildering to Vera, who had a special affinity for pale blouses with little pink or blue flowers and had never had much opportunity for post-coital bedhead.

Still, she got along with Claire well enough. For all her cosmopolitanism and experimental poet status, Claire was stuck teaching at the same regional university as Vera. It leveled them, throwing them together in hopeful academic mediocrity. Thus, they said hello in the halls, gossiped in the mailroom, and joined each other for the occasional concert or show. It felt enough like friendship for Vera to consider it so, and she smiled warmly (if a bit wanly) as Claire waved and waited for Vera to scuttle to her.

“Morning,” Claire greeted her, pushing her exquisitely crocheted braids behind her shoulder as she tilted her head. “How are you?”

Vera had forgotten to prepare for sympathy. “Fine,” she stated abruptly, staring suddenly at her shoes. She sighed. “Fine,” she repeated, looking wryly back up to Claire’s face. Vera shrugged. “It’s just my pride. It’s not like I haven’t had the past four summer months to get over it.”

Claire smiled kindly.

“So I’m not the department head,” Vera continued as they started walking across the lot. “It’s a terrible job, anyway. I mean, no one sane would actually want it. We all know that leading academics is like herding cats. And, okay, yes, the pride thing is a definite factor. But it’s not the first time in my life that I’ve failed to achieve something, and it certainly won’t be the last.”

“True, true,” Claire drawled, “spoken like the true loser that you are.”

Vera snorted and abruptly stopped. “Do I sound as pathetic as I think I sound?”

Claire turned back to her. “Hardly,” she assured her. “You were a strong candidate, Vera. You need to remember that. It’s just that Joan was… well…”

“Ferguson massively outclassed me.”

“She massively outclasses us all,” Claire replied ruefully. “I’m still not entirely clear on why she wants to be a department head here, rather than a dean or upper admin at some Ivy League institution.” She frowned. “I think she said she had ties to the area, but…”

Vera shrugged. “There must be some reason.” She looked at her watch. “Come on, before we’re late!”

Claire smiled, maintaining her sedate stroll as Vera sped ahead. “It’s a department meeting, Vera,” she called after her. “When have we ever started on time?”

*** 

Claire was right, but Vera was still secretly relieved that they were not, in fact, late. Rather, they arrived four minutes early, which gave them enough time for self-conscious small talk with fellow faculty. The talk was mostly genuine; these were people who were close enough to be welcome faces, but not close enough to have garnered visits or phone calls during the long summer months. They were colleagues.

She swung quietly into a seat, taking a moment to survey the room. The factions were present (Medievalists by the doughnuts; Composition/Rhetoric folks at the coffee; Modernists carefully ignoring Victorianists, but gesturing intently with the Romanticists), but were no more fractious than usual. She watched as Linda Miles casually inserted herself between the Medievalists to stuff multiple doughnuts into her bag. Indeed, morale seemed unusually high for the beginning of the school year, and Vera decided these high spirits must be tied to Ferguson’s assumption of the department head position.

She stared broodingly into her cup of plain hot water.

“Vera.”

She looked up as she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Fletch,” she smiled warmly as she stood to greet him. He was a large man, but he gathered Vera to him carefully, giving her a gentle hug that she appreciated. “It should have been you,” he whispered in her ear.

“Well,” she replied softly, trying to appear gracious and Above It All. Internally, she wished he would shout his words as loudly as possible, filling the lecture hall with the sentiment, and perhaps even reaching Dean Channing’s ears. Her skin warmed slightly at that little daydream. If Ferguson turned out to be a massive mistake, if everyone agreed that Vera should have been chosen, if—

A door abruptly slammed.

The room fell silent.

A tall woman strode forward onto the stage of the lecture hall. She lifted her chin, surveying them. She did not smile.

This… _this_ was Joan Ferguson?

Vera sat—dropped—immediately into her chair. Fletch paused, still standing, before he, too, slowly lowered his form into his seat.

The silence was impressive. It’s generally difficult to get academics to shut up; it’s almost impossible to get an English Department to stop speaking. Yet Ferguson simply stood, waiting, as the entire department silenced themselves to sit and stare.

Vera felt, rather than saw, Fletch cross his arms defensively.

Her own gaze remained fixed on Ferguson. The woman’s long legs and torso were encased in a perfectly-tailored suit. Her black hair was lightly streaked with grey and pulled immaculately away from her face. She wore no jewelry, but it was obvious that any bauble around her neck or ears would only serve to detract from her… her… what?

Presence.

From her _monumental_ presence. It was almost oppressive. Vera was certain, somehow, that one always knew when Joan Ferguson entered a room.

The way she kept her chin lifted, the way she gazed back at them without blinking—it was as if she was fully conscious of her effect on these raggedy academics, and was allowing everyone time to stare their fill. Her gaze eventually fell on Vera, and Vera felt suddenly as if she were sprawled on a pin—pinned and wriggling on the wall. She choked suddenly on her own saliva.

Fletch pushed her tea toward her, and Vera gulped at it greedily.

She would swear Ferguson quirked one eyebrow in amusement—ever so subtly—before shifting her gaze to someone else.

In that moment, Vera’s long summer of brooding over the department head position, of feeling sorry for herself, was over. There was simply no comparison between Ferguson and her, and Vera could accept that. She had never seen anyone—man, woman, whoever—be so commanding. No one, in her recollection, had ever presented such a forceful, powerful, complete vision of control.

It was _breathtaking_.

Vera leaned forward, suddenly looking forward to the new academic year.

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic is going to seem REALLY strange... but hopefully it will still feel Freakytits-y!
> 
> And yes, I've added an original character. I just wanted Vera to have one friend--just ONE! Everyone needs a friend!


End file.
